Heritage Trust
by chappysmom
Summary: After the trip to Buckingham Palace, Sherlock finds out that maybe John's family background was different than he'd thought. (4 chapters)
1. Chapter 1

Note:

I own nothing but my own plot, everything else is the BBC's and Arthur Conan Doyle's. I just like to play here.

This takes place sometime after the Pool but before they met Irene.

* * *

"What? No, Harry, I do _not_ have to be there. You know I can't."

Sherlock paused on the landing, smirking a bit. John always made such a fuss over his relationship with Mycroft when his own with Harry was just as bad. He wondered what she wanted now, who the 'he' referred to was. A mutual acquaintance, of course, one who presumably was closer to Harry than to John, or she wouldn't be trying to influence her brother on his behalf. Probably a family member.

While he hesitated, John finished the conversation with that frustrated grunt used by younger siblings everywhere.

Sherlock waited a moment longer and then pushed the door open. "Ah, John," he said, noting the faint flush in his friend's face. "You're here. Excellent. I need you to … is something wrong?"

"No, I just …" John's jaw tightened. "Why?"

"You have your phone in a death grip which you probably should relax a bit unless you want to buy a new phone."

John glanced down at his hand, a blank expression on his face, and then something in his shoulders relaxed and he managed a smile. "Good point. That's not really in the budget right now. It was Harry. On the phone, I mean."

"As one younger brother to another, I sympathize," Sherlock said, trying for something light to ease his friend's mood, but he paused as John's eyelid twitched. "What? Harry's younger?"

"In as many ways as I can think of, yes," John said. "Spoiled rotten by our father and still refusing to grow up—and then she calls me up—_drunk_—and tries to tell me that I'm being the immature one!"

Sherlock blinked, frozen for just long enough to catch John's attention.

"What?"

"I'm just not used to hearing you sound so much like _Mycroft_."

John's grin came out at full strength at that. "Yeah, well, at least I don't spy on her or kidnap her friends. And the only bribe I ever offered was a Cadbury bar to her best friend when she was 17."

"Really? What for?"

"For her not to tell Harry I'd asked her out," John said, a reminiscent smile on his face. "It was a stupid thing to do—partly because she turned out to be Harry's girlfriend, not just her best friend. Harry hadn't come out yet, so I didn't know about the lesbian thing. And then, well, let's just say she wasn't the nicest of people."

"In other words, a…"

"Let's just say I'm far too much of a gentleman to say exactly what she really was," John said, finally letting go of the rest of the tension in his shoulders.

"So, what did she want? Harry?" Sherlock asked, sitting down in his chair.

"Wants me to go … look, never mind. It's not important."

Sherlock kept his voice level. "You don't sound convinced, John."

"I don't, do I?" John said with a rueful head shake and then looked across with the air of a man who needed a distraction. "So, what did you need me for?"

#

Later, after Sherlock had worked his way through the case he'd been working on, he thought back to John's reactions. No-one knew better than he how frustrating a sibling could be, but he had seen John talk to his sister before. Today's level of irritation was unusually high.

So, after John had eaten and was sitting in his chair with a cup of tea, Sherlock asked again, "What did Harry want earlier?"

He thought for a moment that John was going to refuse to answer, but after a thoughtful sip at his cup, John said, "I think I told you that we don't get along, Harry and me? Well, our relationship is still about twenty times better than the one I have with my father. In fact, it's been about that many years since I saw him."

Sherlock blinked. "Really? Why?"

"He didn't exactly take to the idea of my joining the army. He had barely accepted that I wanted to be a doctor at all, but an army doctor? Let's just say he didn't approve and I haven't spoken to him since."

Sherlock was stunned. He could understand a parent disliking the idea out of concern for a child's physical well-being, or even hoping for a better-paying career choice, but this? Something worth estranging a well-loved child over? (Because John had to have been well-loved, didn't he?) "Why wouldn't he approve? An army doctor is certainly a worthwhile career."

"It wasn't nearly … prestigious … enough for my father. If I had to be a doctor, he pictured something more along the lines of a Harley Street practice with wealthy patients. Medicine to him was something you did to make money. It was never about saving lives."

Sherlock sipped his own tea, thinking about that, fighting down his anger at John's idiotic, blind, small-minded father. He supposed that the money could be an issue to a middle class family, but still. "He must not have known you very well, if he thought the prospect of money would sway you from doing what you believed was right. Even Mycroft learned that the first time he met you."

John gave a laugh, but it was a small, bitter thing that Sherlock hated to hear. "Well, he hadn't been the first person to try to bribe me—and he'd just kidnapped me. Even if I had been inclined to listen, that would have just made me stubborn anyway. But you're right. My father never knew me very well, and he gave up his right to when he kicked me out."

Sherlock almost choked on his tea. "He _kicked you out?_"

John nodded, eyes far away. "Said I was a disgrace and he was ashamed of me, that my grandfather would be ashamed, my ancestors … pretty much everyone back to William the Conqueror—though being a fighting man, I like to think he at least would have approved. My Mum would have, too."

"Your mother is dead, then?" Sherlock asked gently. It was so seldom John talked about his past, he didn't want to shake him from this reflective mood.

"When I was eighteen. Cancer."

Sherlock absorbed this. So John had lost his mother, joined the army, and essentially lost his father as well, all within a few years of each other? It was so appalling, it almost made him feel grateful for his own family. Annoying, they might be, but even he knew there was a foundation of caring down at the bottom of it.

"So, what did Harry want? Is your father dying?"

John gave another harsh little laugh. "That I could almost understand, but no. It's my grandfather's 90th birthday and she wants me to come to the_party_."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "That is rather audacious of her, isn't it?"

"You have no idea. It's simply not possible for me to go."

Sherlock was relieved to see a glint of John's familiar humour in his eye. "Oh, I don't know, John. Think of the impression you'd make if you went in your full dress uniform, medals displayed proudly … I concede that it would be unfortunate to actually give your father a heart attack at the party, but a case of indigestion doesn't sound unreasonable."

Now John did laugh, and without the edge of bitterness. "No, he does, at least, deserve the heartburn. It's supposed to be a big, family affair, with all the cousins … cousins, I might add, who have probably thought I was dead for the last two decades. Cousins who have also probably been obedient and biddable and are therefore all wildly successful and wealthy by now. And I'm what? An invalided ex-army doctor who can't keep a steady job. About the best you could say is that at least I don't have the limp and the cane anymore."

His friend just stared. How was it possible that John thought so little of himself? Didn't he realize that he was the most remarkable man Sherlock had ever met?

He was just opening his mouth to say so when John stood and poured himself a drink.

No, he didn't think John knew that at all.

"When is the party?"

John just shook his head and reached for the television remote. "It doesn't matter. Is there anything worth watching tonight? There must be something on that we can mock at least."

#

John didn't mention his family again the next day, and Sherlock—showing a rare sense of discretion—didn't bring it up. Then they were inundated with cases and were busy solving puzzles, helping chase down leads and criminals, that John's family troubles were soon the last thing on Sherlock's mind. If John occasionally seemed more pensive than usual, well, it didn't seem to be worrying him.

And then there was their unplanned trip to Buckingham Palace.

Sherlock had been surprised to see John walk in, but considering this was all Mycroft's doing … he probably thought John would make Sherlock behave or some such ridiculous thing. The minute John sat down and asked, "Are you wearing any pants?" though, Sherlock knew that plan was out the window. John might be more concerned with appearances and (boring) civilities than Sherlock, but ultimately he enjoyed the thrill just as much as Sherlock did.

What Sherlock hadn't expected was the way John froze briefly when "Mr Smith" joined them.

Oh, he shook it off quickly, and his manner was stiff anyway, due to the intimidating surroundings no doubt, but still … John had recognized him, and Sherlock found that fascinating. How would an ex-army doctor have met a top-level palace official?

#

"And that's as polite as he gets," John said as Sherlock swept from the room. "Pleasure to meet you."

He started to follow, but Mr Smith called him back. "Dr Watson? Have we met before? You seem so familiar to me."

John closed his eyes briefly before turning around. He'd hoped to avoid this. "I've spent most of my time in the army, Mr Smith, up until the last year. It seems unlikely."

"Yes, I suppose, but … Oxford, perhaps?"

John shook his head. "No, that was a bit out of my price range, even with a scholarship. I studied medicine at Bart's, though, if that helps?"

"No." The man stared at him a moment longer as if chasing a mental ghost and then shook his head and looked down the hallway where Sherlock had disappeared. "I'm sorry to have kept you."

"No worries," John said, already turning. "Good day, Mr Smith. Mycroft."

He didn't quite run down the hall, but he could feel that little extra bit of military _snap_ to his stride as he walked, hoping that Sherlock hadn't left him there. But no, Sherlock was adjusting his scarf and pulling on his gloves as John rounded the corner. "A last appeal to your good nature?"

"No. Mr Smith thought he recognized me. It's probably from the blog."

"He doesn't seem the type to read your purple prose, though."

John shook his head. "No, he doesn't, does he? It was nothing."

"Maybe he was flirting with you?"

John just sighed. "I'm not gay, Sherlock."

"I know that, and you know that, but countless others seem confused on that point, John. You can hardly blame the man for trying."

"Jesus … he wasn't flirting, Sherlock. He just thought I looked familiar." He looked around at the gilt wallpaper and fine mouldings and gave a small sigh. "Buckingham Palace … It's just weird to be here."

"Just another old house, John. I'm sure it's old and drafty like the rest of them, no matter how superficially grand."

"You're the oddest kind of elitist I've ever met, Sherlock," John told him as they walked to their cab. "You could care less about money and wealth, but put a genius in front of you and you practically roll over and beg to play."

#

Later, once John had gotten Sherlock to bed (with Lestrade's help, even if he'd been a little too gleeful about recording Sherlock's raving on his phone), he called Mycroft to tell him what had happened.

"_Incidentally, John, my friend David was quite intrigued by you._"

Surprised, John splashed the water he was pouring into his mug. "Damn it," he said.

"_Yes, I know. You're not gay, but I assure you, John…_"

"No, not that, Mycroft. I just burned myself. Hold on a sec." He turned the cold water on in the sink and tried to think quickly, past the shock—shock not so much from the injury as from his past, coming back to haunt him.

He turned off the water and wrapped his hand in a towel, fumbling the phone as he picked it up. "Sorry, Mycroft. What were you saying about … David, was it?"

"_He was intrigued. He said you were the spitting image of his uncle Jonathan. He then mentioned that he had had a cousin, once, who disappeared twenty years ago … whose name was also John._"

John swallowed. "It's not an uncommon name, Mycroft."

"_John Hamish Watson __Brandon_, in fact. An interesting coincidence, don't you think?"

"What do you want, Mycroft?" John asked with a sigh.

"_Want? Nothing. I'm just passing on an inquiry from an old friend._"

"And indulging your curiosity," John said, walking past the kettle directly to the sideboard to pour himself a drink.

"_It can't surprise you that it's a family trait._" Mycroft's voice was gently encouraging.

"Well that's true." John sat down in his chair. "But why should I indulge yours when Sherlock was just as curious?"

"_Interesting question. Perhaps you didn't want my brother to know of your family history? Though he would certainly be sympathetic to someone trying to escape their family … obligations._"

John just laughed, even if it was a bit bitterly. "It's the other way around, Mycroft. My family didn't want me. My father made that quite clear when I was 18. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go check on Sherlock."

Ending the call, he sat for a moment, thinking back to the summer he was eighteen. He remembered the look on his father's face as he shouted that he was throwing his life away, would never amount to anything, that it was all his mother's fault. The irony still stung—that it was his mother's devout belief that each person had the responsibility to help others that had helped him make the decision to become an army surgeon. His mother, from her middle-class home and "common" upbringing had had more nobility in her smallest finger than his father ever had.

Not that his father had ever, in any way, lived up to his own potential, John thought, staring down at the glass in his hand. Neither had Harry.

He heard Sherlock calling his name, and as he hurried down the hallway, John could only wonder if he had truly managed to do any better.

#

The next morning, Sherlock was back to his usual self and John was tucking into one of Mrs Hudson's bountiful breakfasts when Mycroft stopped by. He was his usual, pompous self as he nagged at his brother. It wasn't until he was ready to leave that he asked, "May I have a word, John?"

Sherlock lowered his paper. John? Mycroft wanted to talk to _John_? Hadn't he learned the futility of asking John to spy on him yet?

He glanced at his flatmate, expecting to see him looking irritated, but was surprised to see John looking nervous. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, noting the awkward way Mycroft was holding his umbrella, remembering the way Mr Smith had waylaid John after their meeting. There was some kind of mystery here, but he wasn't sure what.

He looked again at John, the way he glanced toward his phone and shifted in his chair. "This is something about your father, isn't it, John? Harry hasn't been nagging Mycroft, has she? I'm crushed. I would have thought I would have been her second choice if she was trying to guilt you into a family gathering … though, really, Mrs Hudson would have been the logical place to start."

John's shoulders hunched in slightly tighter for a moment and for a moment he had the lost look of a stray puppy. Only for an instant, though, for immediately he pulled his head back and sat soldier-straight in his chair. "What do you want, Mycroft?"

Sherlock watched Mycroft's eyes cut in his direction before he said, "I thought this was something you'd want to address in private?"

John threw his napkin onto the table—an unusual sign of frustration. "Right, which is why you brought it up right in front of Sherlock. Even if I'd wanted to, there's no way it could stay a secret now, could it?"

Secret? Sherlock's mind swept through the possibilities. It had something to do with John's family and Mycroft's colleague from the palace. They were of similar age, more or less, but couldn't have attended the same schools. But John had said the man thought he looked familiar?

"_Is_ it a secret, John? Because I confess I can't see why," Mycroft said.

John glanced at Sherlock and sighed. "Really? I thought you were brighter than that, Mycroft. You can't think of any reason why using my mother's name wouldn't make my life easier when I joined the army? You can't see why I didn't want a daily reminder that my father threw me out of the house when I was 18?"

Mycroft blinked and Sherlock felt a surge of satisfaction—he hadn't known that—but Mycroft ploughed on. "Regardless of your father's behaviour, Brandon is still a name to be proud of, John."

Brandon? A common enough name, really, even if it was also the surname of the Earl of … Oh.

_Oh_.

John nodded wearily. "I never said it wasn't, but it hasn't been my name in twenty years, Mycroft. I'm damn proud of being a Watson, thank you."

"As you should be. But … you said your father…" His voice trailed off delicately.

"Threw me out, yes, when I told him I wanted to be an army doctor. It wasn't prestigious enough for him, and he blamed my mother for filling my head with ridiculous democratic nonsense. My mother had been dead for all of two weeks at that point, mind you, so I may not have been thinking as clearly as I should, but … it came down to an ultimatum he never thought I'd take him up on, and I left. I started using my mother's name, put myself through school and training and never asked him for a thing."

"Not even after you'd been shot," Sherlock said quietly, remembering a string of deductions in a cab. ("_You're a war hero with no place to go._")

John just shook his head. "I don't know what my father told the rest of the family after I left. I've really no idea if they think I'm dead, exiled to one of the colonies, or working in a shop, or what. The only one who's ever even tried to keep in touch was Harry, and, well … we never got on, anyway."

"And your grandfather knows this…?" Mycroft asked.

Another shake of the head. "No idea. He's turning 90 next month and there's a big party which Harry's been trying to get me to go to, but … it's absurd. I haven't seen or heard from him since I left home. So far as I know, he agrees wholeheartedly with my father as to what a disgrace I am. I can't just show up…"

Mycroft leaned forward slightly, leaning on his umbrella. "That's actually what David was curious about. I told you he was struck by the resemblance. I wouldn't be surprised if he dropped by sometime today."

Sherlock looked between the two of them. "By David, I assume you mean 'Mr Smith' from yesterday? And he is…?"

"My first cousin," John said with a sigh. "Our fathers were brothers."

"So you're …?"

"The grandson of an Earl, yes, if that's what you're looking for. Marrying Mum was the one and only thing my father ever did without having pound signs in his eyes, and he never forgave her for trying to teach me and Harry that it was the person that mattered, not the bloodlines. How she managed to convince him to let us go to the local schools, I have no idea, though I suspect the crumbling finances contributed. He was more than happy to spend money where it could be seen, but something as unimportant as his children's education?"

Sherlock felt unaccountably as if he'd been hit on the head. This was a John he'd never expected to see—cynical, with a bitter edge as acid practically dripped from his tongue as he spoke of his father. He had never really thought about it before—the kind of childhood John had had. He'd just assumed (stupid, why had he assumed, never assume) that it had been average and happy except for squabbles with his sister. But instead his childhood had been one long series of battles of class warfare. No wonder John had gone to war—physical battles must almost have been a relief.

He looked across at his friend, noting the lines on his forehead, the concern written in the press of his lips. He thought about how John Watson—one of the finest men he'd ever known—had spent the last twenty years trying to prove himself worthy of a man who clearly was not worth the trouble. A man who had thrown his son out because he had disapproved of his choice of career—that army doctor was somehow beneath him rather than being brave and self-sacrificing.

Sherlock thought of his own childhood. True, the children at school had been mindless bullies and he had frequently been misunderstood and punished for honest mistakes by stupid nannies. He had often been lonely—especially once Mycroft went off to school—but he had never doubted that his parents had loved him.

The idea that John had never had that kind of support, and yet had grown into the man he was, strong and kind and good … he glanced at Mycroft and for a moment the brothers shared a look as strong as a hug or a warm hand-clasp. They might fight and squabble, but they both knew that the other cared.

"Why did your father…?" Mycroft asked.

"Because my choice of career was beneath me, supposedly. He felt my, what was it, 'grubbing in the dirt' in the army and 'wasting my time' on common soldiers would shame the family, somehow. He said no Brandon had ever joined the military at a lower rank than Major and my insistence on wanting to earn my rank was foolish and short-sighted. In short, Mycroft, he was ashamed of me and said I was letting down generations of Brandons in my foolishness. He said he wouldn't allow it while I was under his roof … so I left."

Calmly—almost too calmly—John rose from his chair. "That's when I dropped his name, Mycroft. I never expected my father to be automatically proud of me, but if my serving Queen and Country was going to embarrass him, leaving his name out of it was the least I could do. Now, if you'll excuse me, I should shower before David arrives, don't you think?"

He walked out of the room, and Sherlock tried not to wince at the painfully straight back and the merest hint of a limp. As soon as John was gone, he turned back to Mycroft. "I almost feel I owe Father an apology. Apparently he wasn't the worst father in the country after all."

Mycroft's face was solemn as he nodded. "Apparently not. The question is, what can we do about it?"

#

* * *

Note: Apparently I LIKE giving John unusual backgrounds. So far I've given him an extraordinarily wealthy blood-father he never knew, the gift of invisibility, and now this … grandson of an Earl. Mostly because I really liked the idea of him having grown up with money and all the trappings that we regularly assume _Sherlock_ grew up with. (And the thought that somehow this isn't his first visit to Buckingham Palace seemed kind of delicious, though I'm not sure why he might ever have visited as a child … but he theoretically could have if he's an Earl's grandson, right?) Anyway, I needed a way to merge his current accent/wardrobe/lack-of-money-ness into this idea, though, so … estranged from the family seemed to fit. I'm trying hard not to let this feel too much like "Mistaken Identities," though, even if, again, there's a wealthy family he's suddenly reunited with. Don't expect any kidnappings though—unless it's maybe one of Mycroft's specials.


	2. Chapter 2

John was almost sorry it was a Sunday. The surgery was closed on the weekend, and he could have used the distraction of a shift. Medicine always calmed him. Some of it might be boring, and there were parts that were distasteful, but ultimately it was all for the greater good and that had always soothed him in some odd, exhausting way.

Today, though, he didn't have that distraction, and all he could do was sit and wait for his cousin's visit … because Mycroft wouldn't have mentioned it if it wasn't going to happen.

It didn't help that Sherlock was there, oh-so-carefully _not_ watching him as he played his violin. Sherlock, in fact, was being so ridiculously discreet and thoughtful, John was afraid he was going to have a brain aneurism from the strain. Not that Sherlock was never considerate. People on the outside would never see it, but John was well aware of how many times his violin had soothed him out of a nightmare, or how he made sure John had a chance to eat (a few bites, at least) on cases. In his highly unorthodox way, Sherlock was one of the best friends John had ever had.

Right now, though, John would have preferred a chance to brood in private. It had been twenty years since he'd seen anyone in his family (other than Harry), and he didn't know what to expect. From what he remembered of David, he was a decent sort, but he had no idea what kind of man he'd grown to become. Well-spoken with good manners, obviously, and he and Mycroft appeared to hold a certain respect for each other. That (no matter what Sherlock might say) was an argument in his favor. John had no trouble believing that Mycroft would be professionally polite in all situations, but to earn anything resembling respect from either of the Holmes brothers spoke well for David's character.

Not that he could hope that went both ways—between the sheet, Sherlock's near tantrum, and then his total failure at retrieving Irene Adler's phone, John doubted Sherlock had made much of an impression … and by extension hadn't helped John's reputation any.

This was just wonderful, he thought. No contact with his extended family in two decades and now he looks like an idiot. A broken, invalided ex-army doctor who can't hold a steady job and spends his time following around an egotistic, eccentric genius who hates authority. Yes, it certainly looked like his plan to make his own life at 18 worked well for him.

Across the room, Sherlock put down his bow. "You're nervous," he said.

"Well spotted, Sherlock," John said tilting his neck to ease his neck and shoulder. He really needed to relax or he wasn't going to be able to move his arm properly later. The scar tissue always got irritable whenever the surrounding muscles got tight—an ongoing issue, considering who he lived with. "I hadn't really planned for a family reunion today."

"Doesn't it help that you met him yesterday? You obviously made a good impression if he's willing to seek you out."

John gave a snort as he shifted in his chair, trying to find a comfortable position. "Hardly, that simply proved that I'm still breathing. All I did was sip tea while you and Mycroft sniped at each other."

"Nonsense," Sherlock told him. "I distinctly saw the two of you exchange eyerolls at least once over Mycroft's absurd demands. You're practically bosom buddies already."

"Because neither of us understand you Holmeses? If that were all that was needed, I'd be friends with all the world, Sherlock. No, I'm sure this is just David feeling obligated out of some familial need as the pending head of the family. Once my grandfather dies, he'll be Earl, you know, and he probably just needs to know how much of a disgrace I really am so he can brace himself."

He didn't notice the look of anger that flitted across Sherlock's face. "Don't be silly, John. No-one with a brain could possibly ever consider you a disgrace. Your wardrobe, maybe, but you? Impossible."

John looked up, startled, to see a fond look on Sherlock's face. He smiled back and asked, "You really think my wardrobe is a disgrace?"

"With all those jumpers you wear? Of course it is, but it suits you and it's practical—whereas the only times I've seen you in an actual suit, you've looked uncomfortable."

"Well, ta for that … I think," John said, though the knot of tension in his stomach had loosened a bit. "I just … can't imagine what he wants."

"Well, you won't have to wonder for long," Sherlock told him, glancing out the window, just as the bell rang.

"Right. I'd best save Mrs. Hudson a trip, then," he said, standing up, but he could already hear their landlady in the front hallway. As often as she declared she wasn't their housekeeper, she never seemed to be able to resist helping them out.

It was only a matter of minutes before they heard the steps on the stairs, and David was hesitantly hovering in the doorway.

#

David tapped on the door, "Hello? Your housekeeper was apparently on her way out and told me to come straight up?"

Sherlock smirked at the slight disapproval in the man's voice, as John said, "No, no, she's our landlady, not our housekeeper. It was nice of her to save me the trip down the stairs." He held out his hand. "It's good to see you again."

The man took his hand and gave a nod, "Dr. Watson," he said—an affirmation, Sherlock thought, attesting that John was who he had thought. "It's been a long time. Not counting yesterday, of course, when we were _in communicado_."

"Call me John, please. I'm sorry I didn't recognize you," John said as he waved the man in, and Sherlock frowned, scenting a lie. He refrained from saying anything, though, as David stepped into the flat. "You remember Sherlock, of course."

Sherlock nodded at the man and put down his bow with a sigh. This was more interesting than thinking about how Irene Adler had outwitted him, at least, though he was still irritated that she had cheated with that syringe.

The other two exchanged polite small talk for a moment (Sherlock hated small talk), then John excused himself to make tea—habit backed by the need for a moment to gather himself. David tried to discuss the Adler case while they waited, but Sherlock just assured him that she wasn't interested in blackmail and then sat and studied him.

There was very little physical resemblance between him and John, he thought. He never would have suspected they shared such a close blood-tie. David Brandon had all the hallmarks, though, of his class and upbringing, from his accent to his bespoke suit to his custom Italian leather shoes. He had the unflappable good manners that Sherlock's own parents had tried so hard to instill in him. Not that they had completely failed, of course. Sherlock knew well what polite behavior was required of him, he just usually chose to ignore the stultifying, meaningless restrictions.

What he found fascinating was that apparently John had had the same upbringing through his formative years and Sherlock had never realized. Even if that privileged upbringing had been more than half his lifetime ago, it still should have made more of a mark than it apparently had. Unless John had made a conscious choice to hide it? He'd said he went to the local schools rather than Eton or Harrow, so he would have had plenty of exposure to a more relaxed accent, and then years in the army …

"Don't glare at our guest, Sherlock," John said coming back in the room with a tray of tea things (the good set, with the outline of the UK on it), as Sherlock blinked and realized he'd been frowning as his mind wandered. As John poured the tea, he said, "Ignore him. His brain kicks into overdrive and then the rest of the world might as well disappear. How do you take yours…?"

"David, please. Milk, one sugar, thank you."

John nodded and poured out the tea for Sherlock and himself before sitting down a bit awkwardly as Sherlock went to sit on the couch—giving the others a modicum of privacy while still staying in the room. If David was going to be rude to John, Sherlock wanted to be here to provide whatever moral support his friend might need. "You had no trouble finding us?"

"No, none at all," David said, as he looked around the room. Sherlock watched for hints of disdain, but the man looked politely amused more than anything. "I certainly was surprised to see you yesterday … John. I had heard about you and Sherlock from Mycroft, of course, but I never thought that the Dr. Watson to whom he referred was my long-lost cousin. I was quite surprised to see you."

"Me, too," said John with a rueful smile. "Surprised as I was, though, I imagine it was more of a shock for you. It's not like you'd be expecting your long-lost cousin."

"Hardly. It wasn't until after you left that I remembered that Aunt Maggie's maiden name had been Watson and we put the pieces together."

"Honestly, I'm just surprised Mycroft didn't know already. I was sure he did so thorough a background check when I moved in with Sherlock that he had my DNA on file. Knowing I'd gone by Brandon until I was 18 should have been child's play for him."

"I believe he'll be talking quite sternly to his intelligence-gathering team later today," David said with a smile. It faltered, though, as he looked at John. "What _did_ happen to you, John? Mycroft said you were a doctor?"

Sherlock watched as John sipped his tea, visibly steeling himself. "Army surgeon, in fact, before I left last year."

"You were in the _army_?"

John nodded, a wary, shuttered-down look on his face, as if he were bracing himself.

"Remarkable," David said. "Where did you study medicine?"

"Barts," John said, hesitant with a hint of uncertainty at the lack of the expected censure.

"And all of that under your mother's name … Why? To avoid being favored because you were a Brandon, I suppose. But, good God, man, why didn't you tell anyone? We thought you'd dropped off the face of the earth."

John's eyebrows lifted. "Tell anyone? Who was I going to tell, David? My father threw me out with very strict instructions about never darkening the family door again. It's not like I was going to start sending Christmas letters."

David's tea had splashed in its cup, spilling into the saucer. "Threw you … John! What did he do?"

Sherlock watched John's lips purse as his jaw tightened. "What did he tell you? Afterward?"

"Nothing," David breathed. "Not a word. Just one day, he said you told him you needed space after losing your mother and then he just stopped talking about you. He didn't do anything dramatic like cut you out of the family pictures or forbid anyone from saying your name in his presence. He wasn't acting like you'd died, but he wasn't furious or indignant as if you'd had a fight, either. None of us could figure it out."

John gave a small huff. "Typical of him. Showing emotion was always beneath him. I was always a little surprised no-one came looking for me."

"Well, how? I mean, at first we all kind of assumed you'd, well, lost it a bit after your mother died, but we thought you'd turn up when you were done grieving. Uncle Jonathan never seemed _worried_, after all, and you were eighteen. We just thought you were off … finding yourself, or something. It wasn't until Christmas that we realized something was truly wrong."

Sherlock just shook his head. People really were idiots. John had been 'missing' for six months before anyone had even realized? It would be appalling for any family, but considering it had been _John_ who was missing? How could anyone treat him so carelessly?

John licked his lips, glancing down and away. "I can imagine. Grandfather was always insistent that everyone come to Christmas. Missing it that first year was … hard."

David leaned forward, teacup clattering slightly in its saucer. "But why didn't you come? Even if you and Uncle Jonathan were fighting…?"

"We weren't 'fighting,' David. He told me to leave and never come back, that he never wanted to see me again."

"But, why? What could you possibly have done to make him say that? _You_?" David's voice was edged with sharp, slicing disbelief. "Did you get someone pregnant? Kill someone? Lose a million pounds in a card game? I can't … I can't imagine anything that you of all people could have done that would warrant that. He didn't even kick Harry out when she came out as a lesbian, and you know how he felt about _that_."

From the couch, Sherlock watched his friend taking several deep breaths before saying calmly, "Nothing like that, David. I told him I wanted to be an army doctor and he … disapproved. He told me that the family would never accept my joining the military, that my intention to save lives was_selfish_ because associating with common soldiers would 'reflect badly on his position.' Apparently, wanting to be a surgeon and serve Queen and country was akin to sleeping in a gutter with the homeless, or something. I'd pretty much stopped listening by then, but when he gave me that ultimatum beloved by fathers in countless cheap novels by telling me I would bloody well do as he said while I was under his roof … I left. I admit I wasn't really thinking rationally by that time."

If Sherlock had had concerns about David's reaction, they were appeased now. The man looked just as horrified as Sherlock felt. "I can't believe … he disowned you because you wanted to join the army?"

"Apparently not only is Medicine a dirty, disgusting profession, but any rank under Major is a disgrace to the family, and my wanting to combine the two was just beyond the pale. Don't ask me to explain it. I don't understand it any better now than I did twenty years ago."

David looked like he was going to be sick. "Oh, God, _John_. I don't know what to say."

John just nodded, the faintest hint of amusement on his face as he watched his shattered cousin trying to come to grips with his news. He glanced over at Sherlock with a slightly raised eyebrow and Sherlock just gave a nod. David's heartfelt reaction and obvious affection for John had made him rise several notches in his opinion. He was just glad to see that not all of John's family was as idiotic as his father.

John leaned forward to pour some more tea, but Sherlock shook his head when he lifted the pot in inquiry. Watching the two men on the other side of the room was far more interesting than Darjeeling. He was glad to see that John looked calm, not distraught. His cousin's reaction to the news had done wonders for the tension in his shoulders and now he looked like _John_ again—steady and capable, with a glint of humor.

After a time, David asked, "What rank were you when you left?"

"Captain." John's voice was level, but Sherlock remembered what he had said about ranks and his father's requirements, and was watching David carefully, but the man just nodded.

"You're obviously no longer in active service, though…?"

John shook his head. "No. I was invalided out last year."

"And by invalided you mean …?"

"I got shot," John said bluntly, with a gesture. "Shoulder. Just enough nerve damage to kill my touch as a surgeon. That's how I met Sherlock—I couldn't afford London on my own, not on my pension, and he needed a flatmate. The rest is history."

Sherlock hadn't thought David could look more appalled, but the way he was staring at John's shoulder only heightened the horror. "_Shot?_ You were shot? But I thought medical personnel were kept behind the lines?"

"They are, but I was on a convoy that came under attack. I was helping the wounded when … well. It doesn't matter now."

"Doesn't … of course it does."

"No, David, it doesn't. It's one of the risks, and I'm one of the lucky ones. I've got almost full use of my arm and still have my medical license, even if I can't operate anymore. I won't say it was an easy adjustment, but … in the meantime, I did what I wanted to do—I saved lives and served my country. No regrets."

And once again, Sherlock was blown away by John's … goodness. His friend wasn't perfect. He had a temper and was too easily distracted by sentiment, but at bottom, he was _good_. John had a knack for soothing people—easing ruffled feelings in Sherlock's wake. He was skilled in both medicine and with weapons and, even if he didn't observe as well as he should, he was always eager and willing to help. Sometimes too much so, since Sherlock knew he took advantage of his good nature. But John would move mountains if he thought it was the right thing to do. There was a core of steel inside those fuzzy jumpers of his and Sherlock frankly couldn't believe his luck at being his friend.

David meanwhile was staring at John, though his good manners quickly recovered. "I'm … speechless, John. All I can say is that I almost wish you hadn't changed your name so that everyone would know we were family."

Yes, thought Sherlock, David Brandon was definitely not an idiot.

John, of course, brushed away the compliment—modest as always—and the three of them sat quietly for a few minutes. Then David said, "So, you haven't been in touch with _anybody_ since you left twenty years ago?"

"Just Harry," John said, "But you know her … she's got her own troubles. Otherwise? Father told me to stay away, and I did."

"You did all this on your own, then … the army, medicine … at eighteen?"

John laughed a bit. "Well, I got older, David. The first year was hard, but I'm not the first kid to earn his own way. I'm not saying it was easy, but I managed. Tell me about the family. I hear Grandfather is turning 90?"

David nodded. "In January, but he refuses to let us throw him a party, so we're making the Christmas celebration bigger and better this year—he loves Christmas as much as ever. Let's see … twenty years … a lot has changed. My father died six years ago, did you know?"

"I saw it in the paper," John said. "I was sorry to hear it. He was a good man. I always envied you."

David gave a small laugh. "With the way your father behaved, I'd say you had reason. What else? I'm married—remember Anna?—and we have two girls. Sarah was married, but divorced last year, and her son is … acting out, shall we say?"

"How old?"

"Thirteen, and angry," David said with a sigh.

"And … my father?"

"As much of a bastard as ever, but thriving with it. You haven't missed anything there, John. He's just gotten more bitter and nasty every year."

John's lips tightened but he didn't say anything. Sherlock suspected he was feeling guilty at the news, because John was forever taking blame for things that weren't his fault. (Just look at the way he allowed the Yarders to treat him for Sherlock's faults.)

David was obviously familiar with that odd personality trait, because he said, "Don't you dare blame yourself for that, John. You always did that, taking the punishment for everything Harry did wrong. But you are not at fault for Uncle Jonathan's nasty temperament. You never have been."

Sherlock nodded and, seeing John's hesitation, inserted himself into the conversation for the first time. "It's true. John has an almost disgusting habit of taking personal responsibility for the flaws of his friends. Even though I find it personally quite useful, it still shows an appalling lack of self-esteem."

John just laughed. "I've got plenty of self-esteem, Sherlock, or you'd have eaten me alive months ago, but point taken, you two. Father's sins are his own."

"You should come," David said suddenly.

"What?"

"To Christmas. You should come this year, John. It's been too long."

#


	3. Chapter 3

"David, no. I can't." John stammered. "You said it yourself, it's a special celebration for Grandfather. It'll just be terrible if I'm there."

"Nonsense. He would be thrilled to see you."

John laughed. "I doubt it, and my Father would make a scene—he was very firm about what he would do if I ever showed my face again. That wouldn't make it enjoyable for anyone."

"I'm not saying you should crash the party, John. I'm _inviting you_. In fact, I insist. You too, Sherlock, if you think you could manage some moral support for my cousin here."

Ignoring John's protests, David pulled his mobile from his pocket and dialed. "Hello, Grandfather? It's David. I've got news for you—big news. I found John."

John winced when he heard the peal of an upraised voice over the line, but David just smiled at him reassuringly. "Yes, it was a surprise for me, too. What? No, he's fine. I actually met him at the palace yesterday, though it was a shock for both of us. Do you know what he's been doing the last twenty years? A surgeon in the army, can you believe? Yes, I know.…"

John looked despairingly at Sherlock. How the hell had this happened? Twenty-four hours ago, everything had made sense, and now he could feel his entire life tilting on its axis, hurtling out of control.

Sherlock wasn't any help, though. He was just sitting there on the couch with that goddamn smirk on his face, obviously enjoying every uncomfortable squirm. This was all Mycroft's fault, John thought, for dragging him to Buckingham Palace in the first place.

"John?"

He dragged his attention back from his shoes to David, who was holding out his phone. "He wants to talk to you."

John paused, swallowing hard, then reminded himself that he was a soldier and that he lived with Sherlock Holmes. Next to that, how frightening could his grandfather be? What was he supposed to say? He reached out to take it, and feeling like an idiot, said, "Hello? This is John."

"_John Brandon, is that you, son?" His grandfather's voice came strongly over the phone, just like he remembered it. "Good Lord, John, what were you thinking, scaring us to death like that?_"

"I, er, go by John Watson these days, Grandfather, and I'm sorry if I worried you. It was never my intention."

"_David tells me you ran off to join the army?_"

John gave a small cough. "Something like that. I actually ran off to become a doctor, and decided the army was the best place to put my skills to use. I wanted to make a difference, Grandfather."

"_And why couldn't you do that without worrying your family to death, boy? We couldn't even get a word out of your father, and you know how unlike him that is. You broke his heart_."

"It was more the other way around, actually," John said, trying to ignore the lump that had formed in his throat. Despite all the practice, this wasn't getting any easier to tell. "My leaving was his idea, not mine."

"_Don't be ridiculous._"

"Far from it. I told him I wanted to be an army doctor and he said no. He said it would embarrass the family and he wouldn't allow it, and he certainly wouldn't help me, so I did what any stupid, headstrong 18-year old would do. I told him that serving Queen and country was nothing to be ashamed of and that I didn't need his help, and I left. I'm not saying I couldn't maybe have handled things better, but it wasn't my idea. I did try calling a few months later, he refused to take the call."

There was silence from the other end of the line, and then his Grandfather said, in a voice that suddenly sounded much older, "_I see. He never said._"

John immediately, automatically shifted into his comforting doctor mode. "No, well, he wouldn't have. My father has never liked admitting to anything that makes him look bad—even a fight with his teenage son. It's all right, though, really. It did me good, being on my own."

"_You never thought to contact me, to tell me any of this?_"

"I'm sorry, Grandfather. He told me not to. He was quite … emphatic."

He made the mistake of glancing up and seeing the dawning horror on Sherlock and David's faces, but he just shook his head at them. Next to basic training, it had been nothing.

"_I see I'm going to need to have words with your father, John,_" his Grandfather said, but before John could protest, he continued. "_So, you're in the army, then, as a surgeon, David said? No matter what your father might think, you do your family proud._"

John coughed a bit. "Well, I'm not anymore. I was, er, sent home last year."

He really didn't want to have to tell his Grandfather that he'd been shot, but the man hadn't lived 90 years without being able to read a tone of voice, and at his insistence, John explained. "It's not that important … Okay, okay. I'm fine now, but, well … I was shot and sent home. But I'm_fine_."

"_John … you were shot? Oh, my boy…_"

John glared at David for getting him involved in this conversation in the first place. "I promise, I'm fine. I've been home for a year now, and am here in London. … No, I'm not working as a surgeon. There's a trem… never mind. I work part-time as a GP, but I spend more time helping my friend Sherlock Holmes solve crimes … No, really. He does most of the heavy deductive lifting, mind you, but I help and I blog about our cases so that … what? Really?"

Raising his eyebrows at David, he spelled out his blog address. His 90-year old grandfather used the internet?

It took a while before John could get him off the phone, but his grandfather ended by insisting he come to the Christmas party. "_And wear your dress uniform, with as many medals as you've got. We're going to teach that idiot son of mine a lesson and visual aids are always useful. And John? I can't tell you how good it is to talk to you again._"

"You, too, Grandfather," John forced out past the lump in his throat.

He pulled his own phone out and pulled up the Contacts. "I'm under instructions to stay in touch, so I'll need this number, David. And thanks a bunch for that. Are you trying to give him a heart attack? Or me, for that matter?"

David just laughed. "Oh, please. He'll outlive us all. Call yourself, too, while you've got my phone, so that we have each other's numbers. We're_not_ going twenty years between conversations again."

"Obviously not—I'll be seeing you next week at Grandfather's Christmas party."

"Indeed," David said smoothly as he rose to his feet. "I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to it. I'll text you the details."

He turned to take his leave from Sherlock and within a few minutes, the two of them were alone in the flat again.

"So, what just happened?" John asked blankly.

#

Trying not to tug at his collar, John rang the doorbell. "John Watson … er … Brandon, and Sherlock Holmes," he told the maid who hurried to step back, watching with wide eyes as he removed his coat.

"His Lordship is expecting you in the upstairs parlor," she told him, arms full of wool, and John nodded, giving a nostalgic look around the entrance.

"Except for the wallpaper, it doesn't seem to have changed much," he told Sherlock as he started up the stairs, waving off the servant who stepped forward. His feet felt heavy on the stairs as if he were a child again and on the way for a scolding—not that his Grandfather had ever been anything but kind to him, but he had had standards, and even a well-meaning boy like John managed to get into trouble from time to time.

He took a deep breath, and Sherlock said, "But you have. You invaded Afghanistan, remember? This is just a loving Grandfather eager to see you."

John glanced at his friend. "True. Just wait until my Father arrives later, though, if you want to see fireworks."

"But I've seen you with explosives, John. You faced down Moriarty. I can't imagine your father is worse."

"Christ, I hope not," John breathed, but he felt a little clearer, a little stronger and gave his friend a smile before tapping at the door. "Grandfather?"

"John, is that you?" came the voice from inside. "Get in here, boy, and let me see you."

Straightening his shoulders, John pushed open the door.

His first thought was how frail his grandfather looked. The last time he had seen the Earl, he had been seventy, active and strong. Now, though, he appeared to have shrunk and looked small in his chair by the fire.

John took a closer look, though, as he walked across the carpet, noting the man's straight back and the firm gaze. He might be twenty years older, but his spirit was just as strong as ever, which was what really mattered. Even more important was the affection lighting the man's face as he watched him. "Look at you! You've grown, son."

With a smile, John leaned over to embrace the man. "Not as much as I could have wished, Grandfather, but thank you. You look wonderful. May I introduce my good friend and flatmate, Sherlock Holmes? Sherlock, this is my grandfather, David Brandon, Earl of Undershaw."

Sherlock stepped forward. "It is a pleasure to meet anyone of whom John speaks so highly."

"Does he? Well, that's flattering of him, considering he hasn't dared enter my presence in two decades. It doesn't say much for his courage, does it?"

The Earl waved them both to the waiting chairs and Sherlock gave a very real smile. "Oh, I don't know. John is one of the bravest men I know, and he's saved my life on more than one occasion."

"Has he now?" John's grandfather turned back to him. "Is this true, lad?"

John couldn't help but smile at the diminutive, even despite the nervous knots. "Well, he's returned the favor a few times himself, but yes—though I don't know if I'm really that brave."

"Oh, you are," Sherlock said quickly. "Even Mycroft thinks so. You made quite the first impression with him."

The old man was watching them, eyes alight with amusement. "This is Mycroft Holmes you're speaking of? I've met him. His good opinion is one worth having. Your brother, is he?"

John almost cringed, waiting for Sherlock's usual disparaging comment, but all his friend said was, "Yes, and I quite agree with his opinion of John—he does best when he's on a battlefield, whether it's literal, medical, or figurative, and his loyalty is paramount. I couldn't ask for a better friend."

"And you're a detective? I saw your website—and yours, John. It seems almost unbelievable, but I know how bright the Holmes family is. So … show me. What can you tell me?"

John smiled at the fleeting shadow that passed over Sherlock's face. His friend had promised to be on his best behavior and was probably worried at the older man's reaction. "Go ahead," he said. "Show him."

Thus encouraged, Sherlock took one last glance at the old man across from him and said, "You're wealthy, obviously, which one can tell from the house, but it's not all inherited wealth. The house might be, but it's well-cared for and up-to-date, which keeps you busy. You've got a ridge on your left middle finger from the pressure of a pen—you're left-handed, like John—which means you spend a large amount of time working. You're accustomed to computers, but you prefer the old-fashioned touch. You are head of the family and proud of it, but not dictatorial—the family portrait over the mantel. Your sons' body language clearly shows they felt free to express their opinions—though your older son's expression is much more open than his brother, who looks more arrogant, full of his own authority even while respecting your own.

"You are in good health for a man your age—Happy Birthday, by the way—and your mind is as alert and sharp as it ever has been, though your memory isn't quite what it used to be, which is why you keep a pad of paper handy, for reminders. You are also quite delighted to have John here, which shows excellent judgment, in my opinion. You've barely taken your eyes from him since we entered. That can be explained out of pure curiosity after a two-decade absence, but the slight moisture in your eyes, and the way you're turned toward him denotes extreme affection. You also have a gleam in your eye which bodes very ill indeed for your son when he arrives later—which I am also looking forward to."

John watched the look of awe on his grandfather's face and couldn't help but smile when the old man said, "That was amazing."

John looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes. "It always is."

#

Later, John paced, waiting. His grandfather had been very clear about _not_ coming in until the family was gathered. "You'll want to make an entrance, my boy—or at least, I want you to, and it's my party so you really have no choice."

And so, Sherlock watched John fidget as the family gathered below. The chatter of a family happy to gather and catch up (nothing like his, therefore) rose up the stairs, lifted on the music provided by a string quartet in the hallway. "I hate this," he told Sherlock.

"Waiting?"

"Mm. That last moment before diving into action is always the longest and most stress-filled—especially when you're expecting to be attacked."

Sherlock looked at him, noting the high points of red in his otherwise paler-than-normal cheeks "I thought soldiers lived for this kind of thing."

"Oh no," John shook his head. "You dread it, every time. The planning and prep is easy enough, the actual fighting is automatic once you're there, but the last moments before combat? Never, ever easy."

"Especially for a doctor," Sherlock said, thinking about John's fascinating dichotomy of being both a healer and soldier. "Does it help, knowing that if your appearance causes any heart attacks, that you are uniquely equipped to help?"

John laughed—a tense, short bark of a laugh, but Sherlock considered it a success anyway. "Not really, no."

He was just opening his mouth to say something when the door opened and David walked in. "Grandfather said I should come up and settle your nerves, though knowing you of old, John, I can't imagine that's a problem. Good evening, Sherlock."

John smiled and shook his cousin's hand with an air of relief. "It's good to see you, David. And, me? Nervous? Why on earth would I be nervous, I'm just reintroducing myself to my family for the first time in twenty years. Nothing to worry about."

"Not next to invading Afghanistan," Sherlock said, relishing the flash of humor that crossed John's face.

David couldn't appreciate the joke's provenance, but he smiled. "Much less gunfire, at least." He turned to Sherlock. "I should warn you, though, that Grandfather insisted on inviting Mycroft. He said something about you being more John's family recently than we have been, and that it wouldn't be right not to invite him. I've seen how well you two get along, though, so I thought I'd mention…"

Sherlock grimaced, but with a glance at John's slightly desperate look, he reminded himself that John was tense enough already tonight and gave a nod. "It was good of you to invite him, I suppose."

David nodded and turned back to John. "Your father arrived a few minutes ago, so we should be ready to start any minute. Are _you_ ready, John?"

Sherlock thought John's smile was a bit forced, but all his friend said was, "Ready when you are," and with another quick, encouraging look, David was gone.

As if the door clicking shut was a signal, John started to pace, looking both at home in his uniform and uncomfortable. It was fascinating, Sherlock thought. "You're really nervous?"

John darted him a glance. "Of course I am."

"But … after everything you've gone through, why is this so upsetting for you?"

John spun on his heel and raised his eyebrows. "Oh, and you'd be feeling entirely comfortable if it were _your_ family out there?"

Sherlock almost stepped back at the heat in his glare. "Point taken. The difference is that, unlike me, you've never actually done anything to make your family ashamed—no matter what your father might have said to you. Your grandfather seemed quite eager to show you off, as well. Believe me—if it were the Holmes family out there, they would be the ones cringing in anticipation of my arrival, not the contrary."

John's hand was curling and uncurling into a fist. "That may be so, but I'm guessing your family never actually disowned you."

"No, but there were times when they would have been _grateful_ had I dropped the name and forged out on my own."

John exhaled a hard breath through the nose and leveled a look at him "Then they're fools."

Sherlock blinked at the unexpected compliment. "I could say the same of your father. I'll just remind you that you are no longer 18, and that you have a wealth of experience facing down everyone from the Taliban to Moriarty to _Mycroft_, and you remain the bravest man I know. Nobody else could put up with me, after all. No matter what your father may have said or done then, you have _nothing_ to be worried about now. I have no doubt that you outmatch him 100%. And you've got me for moral support, for whatever that's worth."

"It's worth a lot, actually," said John, with the faintest relaxation to the set of his jaw. "If things look like they're going really badly, feel free to snipe at Mycroft all you like to divert attention … but only if it gets extreme. I'm hoping not to embarrass myself—or Grandfather."

"Oh, please, John … that's what friends are for."

"Embarrassing me? Like, say, by wearing nothing but a sheet to Buckingham Palace? Oh, God … this is going to be a nightmare." Thoroughly amused, Sherlock just grinned at him. John was usually the calm, collected one. Seeing him coming apart over something as dull as a family party was entirely unexpected.

There was a tap at the door and one of the maids opened it enough to say, "He's just starting his speech now, sir."

"Oh, God," John said.

#

John could hear his grandfather's voice coming up the stairs.

"I'd like to thank all of you for coming to our annual Christmas celebration—one which my grandson David has insisted on trying to turn into a 90th birthday party for me, even though I expressly told him not to."

A rustle of laughter.

"Nevertheless, I've always appreciated efficiency, and can only applaud his efforts to celebrate twice on the same budget. In that vein, though, I'd like to expand this even further. Tonight we're not only celebrating two birthdays, but a resurrection. Some of you are too young to remember, but my son Jonathan used to have a son. It's been a family mystery for twenty years now—how young John apparently took the grief at his mother's death so hard, he went off on his own, and never came back, despite our efforts to find him. Well, tonight, I can finally tell you—we found him."

There was a wave of gasps and John could almost _hear_ the crackle of attention suddenly being brought to bear on his grandfather.

"It turns out that after my young grandson John left home, he not only earned a medical degree, but he joined the army. He has spent almost all the time since working as an army surgeon, climbing the ranks to become a Captain before he left the service earlier this year."

John drew a relieved breath as he realized his shoulder wasn't going to be mentioned.

"Since then, he's been working with the Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes and writing about their cases in his surprisingly popular blog. Some of you might have even read it, though you wouldn't have recognized the name. All of this, he has done on his own. He was so determined to make his own way, he dropped the Brandon from his name entirely and has lived his rather remarkable life under his mother's maiden name.

"I am exceedingly proud of him, and only regret that we've lost twenty years together—but, thankfully, no more than that. Please let me reintroduce all of you to my grandson, former RAMC Captain, Doctor John Hamish Watson Brandon."

The expectant silence was almost palpable as John exchanged one quick look with Sherlock before turning and heading for the stairs.

As he started to descend and the crowd below saw him (when did his family get so large?), they burst into applause. John bit his lip uncertainly and stopped next to his grandfather, several steps from the bottom as he looked out at the gathered, smiling faces.

Smiling, except for one.

In the back of the crowd was his father, glaring murderously at him in a way that would have made Jim Moriarty proud.

#


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock paused several steps behind John and scanned the gathered Brandon clan. He approved of the general consensus of unadulterated approval (and admiration in not a few faces at John's trim figure in its dress uniform). He saw Mycroft politely applauding with the others as he cast his eyes to his right-toward what clearly had to be John's estranged father.

The man did look remarkably like John—if John were thirty years older, had forgotten to smile, and ate vinegar and small children for breakfast while living in a mausoleum. And right now, he looked as if someone had just shoved a sour lemon in his mouth. His face didn't quite know whether it should look surprised, angry, or just more bitter and tart than usual.

To his side was Harry, looking equally surprised … and something else that made Sherlock frown as he tried to identify it. Frightened? He had never met John's sister before, and he knew they weren't close, but as the one family member who'd known he was alive, you would think she would be happy for her brother … but she wasn't. Or at least, not happy about the _situation_.

John's grandfather was waving him forward to speak and Sherlock could see how much his friend was hating this. John Watson might be fearless in the face of danger, but he hated being the centre of attention. He would step up, step forward when necessary (usually to help Sherlock), but given a choice, he did an excellent imitation of wallpaper—steady at your back, ready for anything you might want to throw at it, but otherwise just … there, holding things together.

Nevertheless, John moved to stand next to the Earl. "Good evening. I can't tell you how happy I am to be here. It's been far too long, and I'm eager to find out if the mince pies are as good as I remember. Really, though, I'm just thankful to my Grandfather for insisting I come, and for my cousin David for making it possible. We met quite by accident last week when Sherlock and I were on a case. We recognized each other right away, though, despite the twenty year gap. Frankly, I think it's because he still remembers the tenner I owe him from a bet we made in 1991. Which reminds me, David, I left my wallet in my other uniform."

There was a warm chuckle through the room as David waved at him, and for a moment, Sherlock thought everything was going to go smoothly.

And then John's father stepped forward and shouted, "I don't know who that is, but that is not my son. My Johnny would never have joined the army!"

#

It had been twenty years, but John could still read his father's body language, and he knew he was about to start something. While he spoke and bantered with David, he watched him, waiting … and it was still all he could do not to flinch back when his father lunged forward, shouting that he was not his son.

And … it hurt. It shouldn't have, he told himself. His father had very thoroughly disowned and disassociated himself from him two decades ago. Having him reiterate it now shouldn't have made any impression at all. But it did. Nor could John wholly prevent the long-ingrained flinch at his father's violent temper.

Facing the Taliban, Moriarty, Mycroft, and Sherlock in a tear all at the same time would be easier, he thought. None of them was his father. None of them had spent his entire childhood telling him how worthless he was.

He managed not to step back, though. With his grandfather at his shoulder and Sherlock a warm, steady presence behind him, John held his ground and tried not to think of the things his father had shouted at him the last time they had been together in the same room. Tried not to think about that last beating, the one to top all other beatings.

And so he just drew a deep breath and said, "Yes, that's exactly what you told me twenty years ago—that no son of yours would do such a thing. Funnily enough, though, when I told Grandfather where I've been, he told me he was proud of me."

"A doting grandfather," his father scoffed. "Grateful to see his long-lost grandson again. Of course he would say that—not that you are his grandson. There is no way John Brandon would ever have joined the _army_."

John licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry. "So you told me, which is why I used Mother's name instead. You made your feelings on the subject quite clear before I left." When you threw me out, he thought, but he didn't say so. This was a party, he reminded himself, his _grandfather's_ party, and it wasn't the place to air his dirty laundry—though from the looks of him, his father didn't feel the same way.

"I say you're lying," his father insisted, pushing his way closer through the crowd, dragging a reluctant Harry by the hand.

"Father, this isn't the place…" John began, but his father was at the stairs now and cut him off.

"I won't have you telling these … terrible … lies about my son! Johnny would never have done such a thing. You're an imposter and a liar, preying on the fond hopes of an old man. It's despicable."

John was frozen, staring at his father. He had known this wasn't going to go smoothly, but this? Wasn't disowning him once enough?

He had no idea what showed on his face as he forced himself to look away, to look at Harry. She was pale and wouldn't meet his eyes.

He really didn't want to know whether his grandfather was believing any of this.

For a long (endless, eternal, longer-than-wearing-Semtex) moment, John just stared, trying to force himself to breathe.

He had always had nightmares—before Afghanistan, before Moriarty. Before being shot, before facing a giant crossbow or wearing a bomb vest while watching his best friend about to be shot … before all these, he had had nightmares.

And in all of them, he had seen this face. His father might have been a handsome man, but in a rage, like he was now? He was terrifying, and he had haunted John's nightmares for as long as he could remember. Other children had spoken of loving fathers, but that wasn't something John had ever known. He had just known fear from his.

Defying his father at 18, telling him he was going to become a doctor, join the army, live his own life, had been the most difficult thing he had ever done. It had been worth the beating, though, because every bruise, every loose tooth had paid for his freedom. In the end, leaving had been easy.

But now? The face that had haunted his dreams his entire childhood was in front of him, raving and furious, and John was rapidly losing the ability to think.

#

Sherlock waited, expecting John to let loose one of his patented Captain Watson commands—the kind that could make him eat or be quiet. But as the silence lengthened, he took a closer look at the tension thrumming through his friend's body, the blank look on his face, and realized.

He was terrified.

No matter how well he was controlling it, John Watson, of all people, was terrified of this man in front of him.

Impossible as that seemed, it could not be allowed, and so Sherlock stepped forward to stand next to his friend. Before he could say anything, though, John's grandfather spoke, asking, "Do you have any proof of that, Jonathan? From what John has told me…"

"That's not Johnny!" the irate man burst out. "Look at him, dressed in that ridiculous outfit, attracting attention. My son would know better."

Sherlock glanced past the pale face next to him to examine the Earl, looking grave. "Well, John?"

John was pale, but standing firm, and his voice was level when he spoke. "Those opinions are what he always said, Grandfather, though he's never called me an imposter before."

"I've never met you before in my life," John's father spat out. "You couldn't possibly be my son. He's been gone twenty years now … dead, no doubt. Tell him, Harry."

He pushed Harry forward, and Sherlock took in the pallor and wide eyes, the tremor in her legs as she tried to keep her balance. "I … I don't know what you want me to say, Father."

"Tell them—tell everyone—that your brother is dead. That you haven't seen him in twenty years."

Harry's eyes were wide as she looked up at John, her father's hand white-knuckled as he gripped her shoulder. Next to him, Sherlock saw John mouth her name, bracing himself against the lie that was definitely going to come. And then the line of the jaw changing, the trace of pain in John's face as he watched his sister, ready to disavow himself to get her away from the monster who was their father.

Sherlock couldn't bear to let this farce go on for another minute. "John," he said, his voice cutting through the tension, drawing all eyes away from the trembling woman below, her angry father, and the best, most self-sacrificing man he knew.

John's head didn't move. "What is it, Sherlock?" he asked, not tearing his eyes away from his sister.

"Give me your phone."

John blinked. "What? Now? No, Sherlock."

"No, really, John. I need it." Sherlock looked over at the Earl, who was suddenly looking frail. "You need to see it, sir."

Understanding dawned in John's eyes, and he started to turn, protesting, but Sherlock was already moving, reaching into his pocket and pulling out John's phone, which he quickly handed to his grandfather. "Look at the back."

Somewhat dazed, the Earl did as he was told, blinking as he read the inscription. "To Harry, Love Clara," he read aloud.

This was met by a confused silence, but Sherlock nodded. "When John was shot and invalided home from Afghanistan, he had almost nothing. No money but his pension, nowhere to live, no friends. His sister couldn't do much for him—certainly couldn't let him stay with her—but she did do one thing. She gave him her old phone, a gift from her ex-wife that she couldn't bear to just throw away but which she hated seeing every day. Recycling by gifting it to her disabled brother was the perfect solution for her—she was able to be generous in a way that wouldn't draw attention from her father."

He turned back to John's father, noting that Harry was trembling even harder now. "I wondered at the time why a war hero didn't have more help from his family, but now I understand. Not only did you throw him out when he was 18, but it was because you didn't approve of his career choice—apparently becoming a surgeon and then devoting your skills toward helping save the lives of the men and women protecting Queen and Country during a _war_ is such an embarrassment. Whatever could he have been thinking?

"No, you threw him out and then spent the next twenty years refusing to discuss him—or to allow anyone else to search for him—but you also spent the intervening time making sure that the one other person who knew that John Watson Brandon was alive kept her silence."

A distant part of his brain remembered that John had been hoping he wouldn't cause a scene, that there are some things that are best kept discreet, that this was a Christmas party, not an interrogation … but none of that mattered. Not only had Jonathan Brandon failed in every possible way as a father, but (worse) he was trying to discredit John Watson, Sherlock's _friend_.

And so he let himself go in full-deduction mode. "I'm guessing that you've never physically abused your daughter—hitting her would go against your antiquated notions of what was due your station, or some such nonsense, but looking at her, it's plain the woman is terrified of you. Emotional abuse then, along with … what? … bribery to keep quiet about John's fate? Perhaps you promised her his share of the inheritance if she kept her mouth shut? Except—poor Harry—you've spent it all, haven't you? You're too proud to work for a living, even though members of the nobility have been doing so for decades now. But no, you've terrorized her and threatened her to keep her from contacting her brother. No wonder the poor woman is an alcoholic, with this hanging over her for twenty years."

Sherlock glanced at John and found himself reassured to see his face was no longer as pale or blank as it had been—and that his gaze was once again fastened on his father. This time, though, his expression was implacable.

"The joke is on you, though, Mr Brandon, because both of your children are better than you deserve. Not only has John spent his life helping others and bravely putting himself into danger for their sake, but your daughter has more loyalty than you ever supposed possible. She stuck to the letter of your demands—not speaking of John to anyone—but she kept in touch with _him_. Knowing John, he spent all of his childhood taking your abuse to protect her, and he would never have left without being sure she was safe. I'm quite sure that if you had ever laid a finger on her, he would have found his way back from whatever war zone he was posted in to protect her … because that's what John Watson Brandon _does_. All Harry may have been able to do in return was give him her phone, but it turns out that to have been a fairly significant gift, don't you think? Because it proves his identity—who else but her brother would carry that phone?"

Breathing fast as the series of deductions shifted down to more-ordinary observations, Sherlock looked around, checking first, as always, with John.

There was anger on John's face, but not directed at Sherlock.

For that matter, there was a matching glare on the Earl's face, and Sherlock was reminded suddenly of the genetic link between the two men, which had never been more obvious.

The Earl spoke first. "Is this true, John?"

John's voice was perfectly level as he replied, "Yes, sir. I'm sorry. I never wanted you to know."

"Perhaps, things might have been easier had you told me. Harry, child, come here," and he stepped down to hold out his arms to her. Trembling, she stepped into his embrace, eyes locked on her brother.

"It's okay, Harry. Believe me, I understand," John told her, but he was still watching his father, warily.

"Father," said Jonathan, his voice cracking. "You can't possibly believe these lies? Who is this person?"

Sherlock stepped forward with a smooth smile. "Sherlock Holmes, at your service, and I assure you. The only one lying here tonight is you. Well, one of the servers is having an affair, but that has no bearing on this."

He glanced back and saw Mycroft working his way closer. "Indeed," Mycroft said, pulling an envelope from his jacket pocket. "Mycroft Holmes. I can provide proof of John's claim, my Lord. I have here the results of the DNA test your grandson David asked me to perform. It proves without doubt that Dr John Watson is in fact John Watson Brandon."

The Earl nodded over Harry's head. "Thank you, Mr Holmes. So, Jonathan? Anything else you choose to say?"

Which was when John's father lifted his head and they saw his eyes. He was anything but broken, and it was only a split second before he lunged.

#

This time, John was ready.

He had spent most of his childhood protecting his little sister from their father. True, the man had only ever directed the physical abuse toward John, but his vitriolic comments and manipulations had often left Harry in tears. She had always been more fragile than John, never able to fight back or stand strong in the face of abuse.

Like Sherlock said, the alcoholism made all too much sense.

But even though the three of them had not been in the same place for twenty years, John's brotherly instincts were still strong. He might have momentarily been flustered and unable to defend himself, but protecting Harry?

As his father sprang forward, reaching for Harry's hair, John was already moving. He jumped in front of his father and caught his wrist in his own strong fingers. He vaguely heard Sherlock behind him, making sure his grandfather and sister didn't overbalance and fall on the stairs, but his attention was on the enraged face in front of him. "How many times have I told you not to touch her?"

"That wasn't _you_, imposter," the other man gritted out through clenched teeth, "And she's mine to do with as I want."

"Not true," John told him, holding strong—strong because he had to, the best defence for his emotionally fragile sister behind him, and his 90-year old grandfather who was still absorbing the shock of learning the kind of man his younger son was. He knew Sherlock would look after them, but it was up to him to put a stop to this. "And we had a deal. I agreed to leave and not look back; you agreed to leave Harry _alone_."

"So what do you call this? You're not supposed to be here!" His father looked past him to snarl at Harry, "And you … you gave him your phone? What kind of stupid bitch are you? Just as bad as your mother."

John's grip on his wrist tightened as he heard the gasps from the gathered family. "Now, you know that's not acceptable language in mixed company. And, really, how was I to know you were keeping your end of the bargain if I didn't check in with Harry?"

"That's why you left, John?" his grandfather asked, voice stunned.

John just looked down at the man in front of him. "Do you want to answer that, _Father_?"

The man squirmed in his grasp, bringing up his other hand to try to pry at John's fingers, but John just grabbed the second hand, holding tight, refusing to acknowledge the twinge in his bad shoulder.

After a moment, though, his father went limp, the fight draining from him. "Why am I cursed with disobedient children? You've been nothing but trouble from the day you were born, no matter how hard I tried to teach you. Your sister is no better, but that at least is understandable. You can't expect as much from a girl, I tried to make allowances. But you? You were always so determined to shame me—going to the local school and associating with those common children. It was your mother's fault, but she never listened, either, when I tried to show her how she was wrong. I thought when she was gone, that you'd understand, but it was already too late. You were weak. Keeping you close, keeping an eye on you, was no longer an option."

The room was entirely quiet now, only Jonathan's harsh breathing punctuating the silence.

John stared at his father, trying to think as an educated medical professional rather than the child who had been terrorized by this man for half of his life. He knew madness when he saw it. His father not only had to be kept from hurting Harry, he needed help in his own right. He couldn't be allowed to hurt himself either.

Face firming in resolve even as his eyes softened, John shifted his grip.

#

"John, that was impressive. You made subduing a madman look like child's play," David said later while John selected a mince pie from the dessert table and took a bite with a sigh. Just as good as he remembered.

"If you do it often enough, it's easy," John said, though to himself he acknowledged that nothing about that scene had been easy.

Right now, he was just grateful his grandfather wasn't angry at him for spoiling the party. He had wanted to reintroduce John with a splash, after all, and, well … mission accomplished. Nothing about that had been subtle.

Oh, they hadn't gone around smashing the furniture. Nothing (physical) had been broken, and the people further back in the crowd … and seriously, when _had_ his family gotten this big? … they hadn't heard that final conversation, when the Earl had told his son in no uncertain terms that his behaviour was inappropriate and inexcusable. But still … the fact that there had been a confrontation had been obvious to all. The fact that Jonathan disappeared shortly thereafter was equally plain.

Mostly, though, everyone was far too polite to comment—though that also meant they were having a hard time approaching John at all, presumably feeling it would be indiscreet, or something.

"Grandfather took that better than I thought he would," John said after a moment.

"He might be old, but he knows his son. I don't think he was ever entirely oblivious to his … personality flaws … though I don't think he had any idea how bad it was." David looked at John. "I feel like we all failed you, somehow."

"Oh, no," John said automatically. "Don't worry about it. I've done pretty well for myself, all things considered. If I'd had a different kind of father, everything would have been different. I might have wished otherwise, but there's not much about the last twenty years I'd change—except maybe seeing all of you. I hadn't realized how much I missed Grandfather."

"He missed you, too," David said, and then glanced past John's shoulder. "Mycroft, Sherlock—good timing, both of you."

Mycroft gave his polite smile. "I was just telling Sherlock that he should apologize for disrupting the proceedings, but oddly enough, found my heart wasn't in it. How are you doing, John?"

John looked at the concealed smirk on Sherlock's face and then nodded at Mycroft. "I'm fine, thank you. The DNA test was helpful. I admit, I hadn't seen that coming—that he would accuse me of being an imposter. It's not like I was after anyone's inheritance, after all. The most I was after was my share of mince pies."

Now David smiled, "You might get more than that. Grandfather said something the other day about a trust fund that Uncle Jonathan has been trying to get into for years—a trust fund in your name."

"What? Really?"

"Yes, linked somehow to the Conan estate, which became yours when you were twenty-one. Uncle Jonathan has been using its income for years now. With your arrival, that's no longer possible."

John shook his head. "Wait … I have an estate? I never knew that."

"He never mentioned it when you were a child? It's family land… Honestly, how did nobody ever notice …" David said with a sigh before continuing, "Anyway, since he made sure you were never actually declared dead, your father simply continued to use the income. Your unexpected return, however…"

"Would theoretically mean I was taking it back … even though I didn't know about it in the first place." John had forgotten how convoluted things could get in this family. "Okay, now my head is starting to hurt. Let's talk about something else."

"I've noticed some admiring looks tonight, John," Mycroft told him after a moment. "The uniform suits you. I hadn't realized you'd won so many medals."

John gave a laugh. "Pull the other one, Mycroft. I'd bet you had my service record in your hands before we even met."

Mycroft's lips quirked. "Possibly, but it's still different, seeing the ribbons displayed. You should be proud."

"Unlike his father," Sherlock said, finally joining the conversation. "What did you say, John? Anything less than a Major was an embarrassment?"

"I blame Jane Austen, myself," John said. "If he got half the teasing I got in school about _Sense & Sensibility_ … though at least he didn't have to deal with the Alan Rickman comparisons."

He hid a smile at Sherlock's blank expression, but David laughed. "Oh God, I know exactly what you mean. I had to deal with the same thing—and I was never in the military. No wonder you changed your name."

"Exactly," John said, swallowing the last of his pie. "It would have been nice to make Colonel, just because, but I suppose it's just as well. If I were still in the army, I wouldn't have met Sherlock, and then I wouldn't have bumped into you at the palace, and all in all … I wouldn't change a thing."

"Even being shot?"

"Well, I confess, it would have been nice to have avoided that, but …" John gave a shrug and reached for another mince pie and bit into it with relish. "Right now? No complaints."

#

* * *

There's a companion piece coming to this one, kind of a mirror-image version, based on this quote from above: "_If I'd had a different kind of father, everything would have been different_." What would John's life have been like if everything else in this background were still true BUT his father was actually, you know, a good person? And how well can I slot _that_ idea into canon? Coming up … "Trust Heritage."


End file.
